


Regression

by februari



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/februari/pseuds/februari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the course of a year in Inaba, Seta Souji makes progress on many fronts. But progress can be lost, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at badbadbathhouse, here: http://badx2bathhouse.livejournal.com/543.html?thread=1515295#t1515295
> 
> For the prompt: _When Souji first reaches Inaba, he seems to be a below-average guy: his beginning ratings suggest he's a bad student, lazy, socially inept, bad at expressing himself, and kind of a coward. Over the course of the year (if you play the game well), he becomes EXCELLENT at everything._
> 
> _What if all those improvements were only possible because of his wild-card abilities and his many Personas? And what if after the crisis is over, his Personas begin to fall silent and fade away...taking his limitless potential with them? And what if, even though he's trying as hard as ever, he just doesn't have it in him to be that great guy from his year in Inaba, any more?_
> 
> _I love Jerkji fills, but in this case I'm looking more for...Just-Not-That-Greatji, if that makes sense._

Over the years, from one school transfer to another, you learned many things. Silence came first, and easiest: you never had the right words, so it was best not offering any. After that, you picked up the art of keeping to yourself; entered each new school expecting no more than a handful of acquaintances, and a scattering of mobile numbers that you'd keep for at least a little while after your eventual move away. 

It was easy to live that safe, grey, muted existence. You did decently in school, nothing flashy. Nothing seemed interesting enough to put effort into. You were nothing to no one, and that was fine, for it wasn't like you'd dare to be anything more.

You hadn't expected things to change in Inaba.

When they did, well -- you'd heard about this sort of thing before. Shy girls blossoming into school idols, school bullies made good, awkward boys learning confidence. People reinvent themselves all the time.

In Inaba, you changed, and thought it was just growing up: growing out of your old self, and finding something better.

* * *

You don't get much time to recover from the events of March. The train ride is all you have to collect your thoughts and figure out what to tell your parents about your year, if they ask. Spring break passes in unpacking, errands, new schoolbooks. So if your Personas grow silent and distant, it isn't as if you have the chance to notice.

It's two weeks into term when you start to think that something's wrong. There were small things before that, moments that seemed to come from a previous life, that shadowy stretch of time you now think of as Before Inaba: a sudden bout of nerves when you had to introduce yourself to your class, a math problem that seemed strangely difficult to solve.

You chalked it all up to stress, at first. You'd grown too comfortable in Inaba, too at ease. But the problems keep coming. Small talk feels awkward, stilted. Schoolwork becomes difficult, last year's topics suddenly turning complex and opaque. Someone gives a casual greeting in the hallway, and you stumble on your reply.

Things come to a head one evening, when your phone rings unexpectedly as you're struggling through an essay. You pick up to the sound of a classmate's enthusiastic, still-unfamiliar voice. He starts with some minor thing, wanting to know whether a piece of work is due tomorrow, but then he goes on about the school day with the slightly forced air of someone who'd like to make a new friend, and you -- you're tired. You don't have the right words for him, the right response to his attempt at friendliness. ( _Is it_ an attempt at friendliness? You can't be sure, and that's strange, because surely you should be able to tell.) Almost automatically, you reach for Izanagi's silent, reassuring presence --

\-- and find nothing there.

* * *

You call Yosuke a day later.

If you were thinking clearly, you might have chosen Naoto instead. Naoto would talk you through the problem, would be more likely to come up with theories, advice, anything. Yosuke would just worry; and you've built friendships on a firm foundation of not making anyone worry.

But you aren't thinking clearly, and there's a small weak pang inside you which you're not yet prepared to acknowledge as loneliness, or fear, or both -- so Yosuke's number is the only one you even consider dialling.

"Hey, partner. What's up?"

Nothing much, you tell him, and you fall gratefully into the familiar rhythm of conversation. It's easy to just drift along, to laugh at stories of Teddie's latest antics and make sympathetic noises when Yosuke complains about school. Easy, too, to forget why you're even calling him. Perhaps to pretend that that reason wasn't there at all.

It takes you far too long to summon up the nerve, and too long to explain things once you finally bring up the topic. You cut yourself off mid-sentence, stumble on your words, try and fail to make him understand. It should have been easier -- and _that_ frustrates you most of all.

(There's one thing you don't tell him: Izanagi's absence feels too raw, somehow, a secret too personal even for Yosuke.)

When Yosuke finally responds, he sounds puzzled. Cautious. Perhaps a little worried. You can't quite tell. "I don't know, Souji, you just sound a bit stressed. New school and all, right? Knowing you, you're probably just staying up too late working on schoolwork or origami or something. Not getting enough sleep--"

"You don't understand," you snap, too hurriedly and too sharp. The sudden anger surprises even yourself; it certainly seems to surprise Yosuke.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just, you sound as if you think that -- I mean, you're still _Souji_ , right? You're still the guy I got to know."

 _But I'm not_ , you think. _That's the problem._

Once, you would have been brave enough to say that.

This time, you're not.

"...Souji? You still there?"

It's the wrong question. Which is to say that it's exactly the right one, the one you'd like to ask yourself.

You stutter out some inadequate apology and hang up, switching your mobile off before Yosuke can call back. It's a cowardly move. But you're not sure, now, that you should expect any better from yourself.


	2. Chapter 2

_Yosuke        18:55:50_  
hey im sorry  
didnt mean to make u mad or anything  
u ok?

_Yosuke        20:10:23_  
dont know when youll see this but im really sorry  
also kinda worried tbh  
can we talk?

_Yosuke        23:30:15_  
call me tmr ok? or let me call u  
promise ill listen

 

_Souji        00:12:37_  
It's fine, I'm not angry. Don't worry about calling tomorrow.  
You were right; it's probably just stress.

 

You keep your mobile switched off the next day, just in case.

* * *

It's not a sustainable solution, of course, and the phone in your house rings when you get back from school. You aren't expecting the voice on the other end, but it's welcome, all the same: Naoto. You don't bother wondering how she obtained your number.

"Hanamura-sempai contacted me." A pause. "I think... he unconsciously wants you to know that he's taking you seriously."

Something about that well-meaning observation stings, but you try to ignore it. "What do you make of it?"

"I would prefer to hear about it from you first, sempai."

It's easier with Naoto, like there's less at stake. You tell her what you know of your deterioration over the last month, confess every rediscovered weakness. If Naoto is surprised at the revelation of your past self, she doesn't show it.

(And that's the whole point, isn't it: none of these flaws are new. Did you make that clear to Yosuke? You're not sure you did. There's an idea of you -- an ideal -- which you don't want to destroy, not yet, not until you're absolutely sure you can't live up to it.)

"It's like it was before Inaba," you tell her.

"Like _you_ were?"

The question is incisive, though not unkind. You trip a little on your reply: "Yes."

"I see. And is there anything else?"

You know she asks because she already suspects the answer, and by now you've realised that it's not just Izanagi: all the others are gone as well. But you can't bring yourself to admit that loss, so you don't respond. After a while, Naoto sighs.

"For what it's worth, I don't hear Yamato-Takeru any longer," she says, carefully. "But I do not think that means he is gone."

You make some vague noise of acknowledgement. Naoto's trying to be reassuring, but all you can think about is that absence, stark and insistent, like a room so empty it hums.

Naoto's saying something again. You try to focus. "...and you'll be returning to Inaba in Golden Week, won't you? If you're agreeable to it, I'll let the others know about this in advance. Then, when you return, we'll be better placed to discuss it together."

It's been barely a month, but you'd forgotten about Golden Week and that conversation by the train station. By now you should all have been making plans, but you haven't even booked your ticket back, or contacted Dojima. Yukiko had said something about staying at the inn again, hadn't she? "Y-yes. That's fine." You pause, half-lost in thought. "Naoto. Thank you."

"Sempai?"

"I just... didn't know what to do. So, thank you."

She goes quiet. Of course she would. This isn't what she called you for, or expected from you. You were meant to have a plan of your own, like you used to do, or at least to know better than to admit helplessness. There's that pain again, rising thick and heavy in your chest. Guilt? Shame? You take a slow breath, ready an apology on your lips.

But then, gently, before you can speak again: "We'll solve this together, sempai. Trust me."

She leaves you with that and a goodbye. With Naoto's voice gone and the dial tone's monotone in your ears, Inaba feels further away than ever. It's not just the miles that seem to rush up towards you, dizzying, or the memory of long hours on a train -- here, now, in a new school uniform and a house that's grown familiar, your time in Inaba no longer seems real. It's faded into memory, become a dream that blurs upon waking: a story that might have happened to someone else, one which you only watched from the sidelines.

* * *

Golden Week, Naoto had said. It's only a few days away, now, and in the remaining time you try your best to rebuild who you were. After all, it wasn't as if you gained competence simply by setting foot in Inaba. There were many small journeys, you remember: progress, one day at a time.

You start by half-reading a few books, trying to push through the stultifying fog of inertia. Homework goes easier, if more slowly than you might have been capable of once. You've never been stupid, not even before; it just takes effort, this time around. Everything does. At school you try to pick up the patterns of interaction, ease yourself into the classroom's social life as if you're slipping back into an old routine. You break your silence a little more often. Your former determination doesn't return, but you gain the ability to fake it, if only in bursts: a book completed here, a half-day of chores there.

None of this is enough, but it's a start. (You try not to wonder if it's also an end, a plateau.)

One night you catch sight of your reflection in the television screen, looking almost serene. You'd forgotten that was how you seemed to others, once: not just the quiet, odd loner in the back of the class, but someone who could be liked, even admired.

No, that's not it, either. Relied upon.

* * *

At some point, miles away in Inaba, Naoto tells the others. You might have expected a message from Chie, full of her unforced optimism, or an emoticon-laden one from Rise. But it's Yukiko who texts you, early one morning before school begins:

_You don't always have to be what others expect you to be._


	3. Chapter 3 (interlude)

On the long train ride to Inaba, you aren't yet anyone. In a few hours that will change, and you'll have to pick up old roles, try to fit back into them. But for now things are as they were last year, and you are still a blank slate: raw potential, unfettered by expectations.

...except that you know that's a lie. This train isn't taking you to a new beginning, but back to people who are waiting for someone you're not sure you can be. There'll be no mysterious handshake, no sudden worlds of power opened to you: just a petty personal crisis and friends you'll have to disappoint.

It's kind of funny, you suppose. You were much calmer back when you had to save humanity.

Still, miles away from the claustrophobia of Tokyo, distress dissipates into something like resignation. An answer has been forming inside you, helped along by Naoto's clarity. It's not that you're losing yourself. You're just returning to the person you once were. Or perhaps the person you've always been. Perhaps, you think, the _you_ of last year was the aberration, more Izanami's creation than anything else. And so the question now is not _what_ or _why_ but _if_ anything can be done, the way you were trying and not-quite-succeeding before Golden Week arrived; and if nothing can be done, then the question is--

Your phone chirps, derailing that train of thought. It's a text from Naoto, thinking ahead as always: _I hope your journey is going smoothly, sempai. Rest well, and we'll see you tomorrow._

Sparing you the task of facing everyone the moment you arrive. You can recognise that much, fuelled by what you'll admit is self-pity. She thinks you won't be up to it.

She's probably right.

 _Thank you_ , you text back. _I'm sorry for the trouble._

You know you should be grateful, but there's something darker mixed in with the feeling, a bitterness you don't try too hard to identify. Does Naoto still think there's something to be solved, someone worth salvaging -- in which case you'll have to disappoint her as well? Or is Seta-sempai just someone to pity, now, incapable of causing disillusionment because all illusions about him are gone?

And what is there left, really, after the illusions? You're reminded of Yukiko's message, still saved in your mobile. At first it was comforting to reread; now its warm acceptance seems too naive. In Inaba, Seta Souji was always precisely what others expected of him, a being composed of roles: leader, big brother, senpai, friend. To be something other than what was expected, something not defined by others -- you're not sure what that would involve. Whether it's something you're even capable of being.

Your reflection in the train window is translucent, a ghost through which you watch the scenery fly past. You wonder if that was the reason you never met your Shadow: there was nothing in you worthy of one, no self to its Other.


	4. Chapter 4

It's early evening when you arrive. Your phone lay silent after Naoto's text, but Dojima and Nanako are there to meet you at the station, just as they were the first time. Their presence is so welcome that it hurts; to your surprise, there's no need for you to fake the smile you give them. 

"Welcome back, big bro," Nanako says, and this time she runs out to greet you with a hug.

"I'm back," you say, fumbling to find more than just the ritual reply. "I-- I missed you both."

Nanako laughs, a bright and uncomplicated sound. "I missed you too."

"She really did," Dojima adds. He looks a little flustered by your clumsy sincerity, but claps you on the shoulder anyway, grinning. "It's good to have you back."

In the car, Nanako tells you about the new school term, and the cherry blossoms you didn't get to see, and the cats that still hang around outside the house. You smile and listen and think that this, surely, is one role you can still play. To Nanako, at least, you can be the person she remembers.

When the gas station flashes past, it's just another part of the scenery. No gifts this time, you think, and decide that that feels okay.

* * *

Dojima's bought sushi for dinner, like he used to do for special occasions. This too is familiar, and you hold that feeling close, warm yourself with the sense of homecoming. It's comforting to be a listener again; to not have to explain your thoughts to anyone, not even yourself.

When the conversation turns towards you, as it inevitably does, you meet the questions as truthfully as you can. Yes, your parents are doing well. It wasn't that hard to get used to Tokyo's hectic pace. The new school is fine.

"What about new friends?" Nanako asks eagerly.

"It's... a little early."

But you forget to soften those words with a smile, and Nanako looks a little sad. "Don't worry, big bro," she says. "I'm sure you'll make lots of friends! Just like you did here."

Is it the sincerity that cuts? The misplaced faith? "Yeah," you manage. This time you remember to smile.

When you glance up, Dojima's looking at you strangely: curious, or perhaps concerned. "Looks like the city made you quieter," he says, with a rough, uncertain laugh. "Not that you were that chatty when you were here, I guess..."

What can you say to that? Silence has always been your first recourse. You were quiet, too, when you first arrived in Inaba; but perhaps Dojima remembers that, and your silence now feels like a distance opening up, as if time were rewound.

Or perhaps you're just projecting. You settle for a vague "I suppose so."

"Ha! More formal, too." But the alcohol must be helping, because his half-frown settles into a grin, and his next words are more joke than admonishment, mock-stern: "Don't let the city change you too much, you hear? Inaba'll always be here if you need it."

 _That_ hurts, too, even if you can't pinpoint why. "I won't." And then, even if it _is_ too formal: "Thank you."

The hours pass. Formality is a crutch in the absence of your former skills, silence doubly so, and you don't know if you're holding up your end of the conversation well enough; but it's as if that doesn't matter, at least not to them. They're glad you're back -- simply, straightforwardly glad -- and the realization sparks something within you, something bright against the greyness of days past. You clutch at it like you did to the sense of familiarity, the idea of home. A weapon, or a shield.

The doorbell rings just as Dojima's sending Nanako upstairs to bed. "I'll get it," you say, already scrambling to your feet, eager to be useful. It's as if there's a piece of Inaba you've reclaimed, a space you can still call your own, and if you can just hold on to this feeling until tomorrow, believe that the person you were tonight was good enough, then maybe--

But then you open the door, and the spark gutters out in a cold wave of shock.

It's Yosuke.


	5. Chapter 5

He isn't meant to be here, you think blankly. Not now, not like this, not before you're ready to be the Souji he's expecting.

Yosuke looks at you; looks away. "I told your uncle that you wanted me to come over," he mutters, still not meeting your eyes. "To stay the night." He steps in, pulls off his shoes, moves past you into the hall. "Sorry for intruding," he calls out into the house, voice suddenly bright.

"Ah, Hanamura," Dojima says. You hear his footsteps coming back down the stairs. "Don't keep my nephew up too late, he just got back."

You realise you're still staring at the door, and move forward to lock it. Behind you, Yosuke laughs with a nervousness that's only half-faked. "G-got it, sir."

"Souji," Dojima calls. You turn around. He's got that strange, questioning look on his face again, but there's something else mixed in with it; something sad. "You don't have to hold back like that. If you want to have a friend over, just ask." He pauses, glancing at Yosuke. "Don't let Hanamura be the one to ask, the next time."

You nod, numbly. Dojima waves you both upstairs.

You can feel yourself faltering as you lead Yosuke to your room, the work of the past few hours unravelling. The pieces you've reassembled slip out of your grasp and then you're no one, again: emptiness hollowing out your chest, a shadow that's forgotten its form. In that moment, you resent Yosuke for his intrusion into the Dojima residence, his disruption of the place you'd tried to find anew for yourself. Every step he takes forward is a reminder of the fact that you weren't just Nanako's 'big bro' or Dojima's nephew, that there were parts of yourself which belong to other people and which you haven't yet found or put together.

The door to your room swings open easily. You step inside, Yosuke close behind, and beyond the dizzying loss of self, another fear rises and pushes itself to the front of your mind. You haven't spoken to Yosuke since that unfortunate conversation over the phone. A few text messages were exchanged in the days that followed, but they all fell into the same pattern -- Yosuke's concern, your evasion -- and at some point, he gave up trying to reach you. Until now. And now there'll have to be apologies, excuses, the continuation of that conversation you couldn't bring yourself to finish. _Sorry, Yosuke, I was just too much of a coward to talk to you. Yeah, I know, how pathetic is that? Guess what: that's the sort of person I am now. Sorry._

_Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._

There's a muffled sound behind you as Yosuke sets his bag down on the floor. You walk towards the folded futons -- you hadn't noticed the spare one when you left your things here this afternoon, you really should have -- and rest your hands on top of the pile. It's soft, and comforting, and right now you'd like to just sink into it and fall asleep. And then wake up from this bad dream, wake up a week ago, two weeks ago, a month ago when everything was still perfect; when you were still perfect. Reset.

But Yosuke's still there behind you, still waiting, and so you breathe in deep and turn around.

You expect -- anger, maybe, or at least frustration. A scowl. Demands for explanation. What you're not expecting is the raw emotion on his face, a vulnerability you're too surprised to comprehend.

"God, Souji." He looks like he wants to cry. "Just now, downstairs -- you looked terrified to see me."

You just stare at him. Ah. This is a new failure. You were so wrapped up in your own fears, your stupid existential crisis, that you hadn't thought about what Yosuke must have felt to see you like that. What he's probably feeling, right now, as his partner stands uselessly before him like a statue. Or as a statue stands there in place of his partner.

 _I can't return that Souji to you_ , you think.

_I'm sorry._

"I'm sorry," you start to say, but then Yosuke's closing the distance between you, reaching out, pulling you towards him.

His hair tickles the side of your face. There's something warm and wet on your neck. Is he crying? You should comfort him, you think distractedly, wrap your arms around him or something; but he's the one holding you, and you breathe in and breathe out and let your arms hang uselessly by your side instead. There's that feeling again, the one you've come to recognise as inadequacy: a dull pain that you're having to name for the first time in your life, because before Inaba no one expected anything of you, and in Inaba -- the first time you were in Inaba -- you could give them everything they expected.

"Yosuke?" you try. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to look as if... I mean, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have avoided... I should have told you--"

"Shut up," he says fiercely, and you're sure he's crying, now. "Shut up, it's not your fault."

You comply. It's not as if your words would help, anyway.

"Souji, I... fuck, this is all wrong. I didn't come here to cry on your shoulder..." He takes a low, shuddering breath. "Don't apologise, okay? Because, yeah, I was kind of... pissed off, when you kept avoiding my calls and sending those stupid texts and just. Running away. But I was _worried_ , too, and I should've listened to you from the start, I should have been there for you, for once -- for a change, not like before, not like _November_ \--"

Yosuke's still clinging to you, desperately, a little too tight. You remember November. It happened to someone stronger, someone who could keep both a team and himself together, and take each cloudy night alone.

"I didn't need anyone then," you say, carefully.

"That's not what I-- God, never mind, I'm making this all about me again." He steps back, at last; draws the back of one hand across his eyes, almost angrily, and looks back at you. "Look, Souji, I don't know what happened, but we'll deal with this together, okay? We'll fix this."

Something's wrong with that sentence. A cold dread blossoms to life inside you. "Yosuke. What did Naoto tell you?"

"What? She said... well, what you were trying to tell me, I guess. That you felt you were... losing your mind, or something. Bits of it. Like you couldn't concentrate, or figure out what to say, and that sometimes you felt, well, scared." His gaze locks onto yours, suddenly unsure. "That's... that's all, right?"

Of course. She's left you to do the difficult part. Some part of you appreciates that lack of hand-holding, the fact that Naoto trusts you -- trusts your competence -- at least that much. The rest of you is dimly terrified at the prospect of what you'll have to do.

Best to get it over with quickly, you think. You'll have to do this again tomorrow.

"What she should have told you," you say, voice calmer than you'd have thought possible, "is that I'm not losing anything. I mean, it wasn't-- I wasn't-- I've always been like that. Like this. I've just... gone back to being who I was before Inaba. I gave up easily. I couldn't really make friends." This is the part you thought would hurt, this inventory of flaws, but you feel strangely empty, liberated, as if this were a confession. "I was hopeless at saying the right things. I wasn't brave, or strong, or anyone's leader--"

"Stop," Yosuke says, and-- is he angry, now? "Souji, stop it, I won't-- you're not like that! I _know_ you--"

And there it is, right there, the knife in the gut. " _No_ ," you say. "No, you don't, because you only knew who I was last year, and that was-- Izanami, or the Personas, or something, but that-- that wasn't me. That person, last year... that wasn't me."

There. You did it.

You can't look at Yosuke anymore, so you turn away. There's the stack of futons, by the wall; you should lay yours out, you think, automatically. Yosuke's, too, if he still wants to stay the night, though you can't think why he would. As you gather the bedclothes in your arms, there's nothing, no fear or despair or even resignation. You've gone through that and out the other side. What was it you were thinking about, that day? Something about an idea of you, an image you didn't want to ruin? You've broken that, now, or at least you hope you have. No more illusions. It's like you've exorcised a ghost; your own.

You step past Yosuke -- still not looking at him -- and start to lay out the first futon. You're not waiting for anything, you tell yourself. But his silence is the only thing you can hear.


	6. Chapter 6

Yosuke stays silent, and you can't blame him. It can't be easy, realizing that your best friend wasn't even a real person. Too good to be true -- that's what they said about you at Yasogami High, after all, wasn't it? Perfect Seta Souji. You consider, far too late, the fact that there was an alternative to total honesty: total secrecy. Perhaps you should never have called Yosuke, never mentioned this to any of them, let them remember you as you were. Potential realised, a promise fulfilled. You could have left them that gift -- an unblemished memory of their leader -- and left Inaba the way you've left every other place you've ever known: cleanly, completely, without lingering attachments.

Still, it's done now, for better or worse. You smooth down the last corner of the quilt. Yes, you took longer than usual to lay out the futon, and yes, you had your reasons for doing so. (You're becoming good at recognising your own weaknesses, identifying them before you can make excuses for yourself.) But there's no more avoiding it. Soon you'll have to finally ask if Yosuke's going to stay, so you can decide whether to start on the second futon.

It's not that hard. It's a simple question. _So, are you staying the night?_ You'll have to keep your tone as neutral as possible, try not to sound bitter or to guilt him into staying, but you should be able to do that much, even now.

Still half-kneeling on the futon, you start a slow, reluctant count to ten in your head. But then, unexpectedly, Yosuke spares you the trouble:

"That's not true."

You turn and look up towards him, uncomprehending. What is he even trying to deny? His ignorance of who you really are? Or the fact that his Souji isn't you, was never you? You'd laugh, if you could. So much for destroying illusions; you couldn't even accomplish that. Even now, Izanami's Souji bests you, so successful a creation that his friends can't let him go, that you now have to beg others to believe in your mediocrity. _No, it's true. I'm afraid I really am this pathetic. Trust me on this one._

Yosuke seems to realise something, and goes on hastily: "I mean, I'm not doubting you, okay? Not again, not about... whatever's happened to you. Something's changed, I got that. You've changed. And-- and you're right, I didn't know you before last year. I don't know what you used to be like, whether you were popular, or eloquent, or-- or brave."

_No,_ you think. _You don't._ The emptiness that's taken hold is a sort of strength, and you draw on it, refuse to let his words stir anything within you. No fear. No despair.

He's staring straight at you now, his gaze almost pleading. "But even if you weren't those things, it doesn't mean-- I mean, there's more to you than that! I didn't become your friend _because_ you were our fearless leader. I didn't like you just because-- because you were good with people or good with words or..."

You realise, slowly, that he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince you. The telling part is everything he doesn't say, the truths he's keeping from you and probably from himself. He _did_ like you for qualities you no longer have, of course he did: your courage, your resolve, the way you led the team. You remember his admiration for you, the slightly embarrassing way in which he'd look at you, sometimes, like he was seeing someone he couldn't quite reach; the way he looked _up_ to you. Now, in the face of his desperate rationalizations, you almost miss that admiration -- and feel ashamed for doing so.

You should stop him now, for both your sakes, so you don't have to watch him struggle to make it sound like you're worth knowing.

"Yosuke. It's okay. You don't have to..."

" _Stop it._ " And then he's stepping forward, kneeling down so he's face-to-face with you, suddenly close. "Listen to me. I knew you at the start of the year. Before everything. And when we met, when you helped me out of that stupid garbage can, that didn't take courage or charm or anything. That was just you. Just you. So... so it's not that you're a different person now, okay?" He chokes a little on the sentence; you note that with a small, sick twist of what could almost be satisfaction. He's in denial. He's finding it hard to lie to himself. "I don't care what's happened to you. You're still Souji. Don't tell me that that wasn't you, last year, because it was. Of course it was."

'Of course it was' -- by which he means, 'surely it had to be.' He's still clinging on to hope, still believes that there's enough of that Souji left in you for all this to be worthwhile.

You're no longer persuasive enough to convince your friends of your own inadequacy.

You almost do laugh, then. How clearly do you have to lay it out for him? You look back at him, let the emptiness take the last of your qualms, and try again.

"You're saying this because you hope you can bring _him_ back." It comes out harsher than you intended; Yosuke flinches, and you feel a stab of guilt, but press on. "You think that if you accept me, this... this version of me, we can just work on this problem, 'fix this', and then I'll be brave and determined again and you can-- like me, because I'll be someone worth liking. But I can't be that anymore," you say, and _why is it so hard to make him understand?_ "It's not something temporary. At first I thought it was something I could fix, too, but it's not. I can't be who you need, I can't be that guy who got you through last year--"

"I don't need you to be that! I don't need a leader, Souji, not now. Nobody needs that. We just need you."

Yosuke grabs you by the shoulders, gripping hard enough to hurt. He's frustrated, maybe even angry, but not enough to back down. And you--

You give up. Of course you do.

It isn't that you believe anything he's said. You're just tired. So you look away, and when Yosuke makes a small, defeated noise and pulls you close again, you don't resist. You lean against him and think about how tomorrow will go. They'll all tell you that it's fine, that nothing's changed, but they'll look at you and see someone you can't be. They'll tell you to work hard, probably. That this is just another case you can all solve together. And you won't be able to explain, because they all believe too deeply in the person they knew.

Or, well, maybe you'll have a chance with Naoto. She's sharper than that, has less invested in the idea of you as infallible. Perhaps she'll be able to talk them round. It'll hurt, you suppose, having to hear her confirm all your failings, but at the same time there's something reassuring about that prospect; about the idea that someone else, at least, won't have expectations you can't fulfil.

You let Yosuke hold you for a little longer, and then you straighten up and push him away, gently. Attempt a smile.

"So. Are you staying the night?"

He looks-- you can't tell. Expressions flicker across his face: he's glad, surprised, suddenly unsure. You suppose it was too clumsy an attempt to change the subject, to smooth things over as if you weren't just arguing a minute ago. But then, to your surprise, he lets it go; smiles back, a little wryly, and goes to get his own futon.

Later, when you're both in your separate beds, he says -- more to the darkness of the room than to you -- "I know that wasn't enough. But I'm going to keep trying. I'm not giving up until you believe me."

You don't have a response to that, not even in your own head.

* * *

Morning comes, as it always does.

"You're awake," Yosuke observes.

You turn your head to see him looking down at you, a slight frown on his face. He meets your gaze; gives you a small, tight smile, and looks away.

"I was thinking about last night," he begins, as you sit up beside him. He doesn't look at you. "I guess I wasn't being totally honest. 'Lies of omission' or something, right? So--" and he draws a breath through his teeth, lets it out in a sigh-- "I did like you because you were strong and brave and always knew what to do."

This isn't supposed to hurt, you think, with a sort of dull surprise. This is what you wanted him to say, isn't it?

"I liked how, no matter what happened, you kept moving forward, kept us all moving forward. How you were so calm, and. I don't know. Assured. Like you always knew we would make it. I admired that about you. And it's... it's weird to think that was-- I don't know, that that wasn't the person you were before. That maybe it's not who you are now."

He pauses. His profile is unreadable. Your hands curl around handfuls of quilt.

"So. There's that. But... I meant everything I _did_ say last night." He turns, finally, looks at you, and you stare back because you don't know what else to do. "I liked you because of... those things, yeah, but I didn't like you _just_ because of them. And I _did_ know you before you became our perfect leader, and I liked you even then, and I... I'm not hoping to 'get the old you back' or anything. I'm really not. Maybe you're not... quite the same, now, but you're still Souji to me. You're still my friend."

That last part's harder to believe. You almost want to ignore it, in favour of that part of you which dwells on his earlier words, almost relishing the pain they bring: _He liked you because you were_ strong _and_ brave _and nothing like what you really were. Nothing like what you really are. It wasn't you he liked, not really._

_Yes,_ you think. _That's right. There's nothing left to like._

You say as much to Yosuke.

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, cautiously: "I don't think your uncle and Nanako-chan thought so, did they?"

"That's different," you reply, feeling something clench in your chest. "I wasn't... I didn't have to be as much to them. There was less to lose."

"But that means there's something left, doesn't it? They still recognised you. They get to think of you as the same person who left Inaba in March. Why don't I?"

You don't have an answer. Yosuke gives that small, bitter smile again, the one which looks as if it hurts. "I don't know why you keep talking as if you're no one, now. I mean, I fucking well recognise your stupid habit of taking everything upon yourself. Thinking that everything's your responsibility. Why won't you just-- why aren't I allowed to like you anymore?"

It's a good question. Why isn't he? What was it you wanted, when you came back to Inaba, when you called Yosuke the first time? What did you want, and what did you fear, and why does it seem as though they've become the same thing?

You wanted reassurance at first, a way to fix things, but then you didn't. If you couldn't be the person your friends remembered, you didn't want to be anything to them at all. You wanted them to be disappointed; you wanted rejection because it was better than pitying acceptance. And then you could truly return to your past self, your past life: expecting nothing of others, and having nothing expected of you. Safe and empty and alone.

You bring one hand to your eyes. Yosuke doesn't move towards you, this time. Something's shifted, broken: he's won, or you've lost, or something like that. He's allowed to keep liking you, to keep thinking you're still worth something, that you're still someone. You want-- you need to-- you should try to do the same. Maybe. You don't know.

When you look up again, Yosuke's looking back at you, but you can't read his gaze. It's not disgust, at least. He sighs, says: "I didn't think you were capable of being so..."

_Insecure?_ you supply in your head. _Pathetic?_ Something of your thoughts must have shown on your face, for Yosuke frowns. " _Human_ ," he concludes firmly. "I didn't realise you could be so human. I mean, I liked you partly because you were so amazing, I guess, but it was... hard, you know? Hard to be partners with someone so perfect." He laughs. "I know, I know, I kind of said all this before, way back. Thought I'd gotten over it then, too, after that fight we had. But after that --- I'm not sure I really felt we were equal, in the end. Despite everything."

You don't know how you should feel. Apologetic? Guilty? You hadn't realised how Yosuke had felt; but it doesn't mean anything now, not when you're no longer perfect enough to make him feel inferior.

"There's something else I didn't say last night," Yosuke adds abruptly. "I'm not proud of it. But when I heard about what had happened, how you'd changed, I guess... there was a part of me that was kind of relieved. Sort of like, wow, Souji's not perfect after all. Sorry. Guess I'm kind of a horrible friend, huh."

"No," you say, and you mean it. "Thanks, Yosuke. For everything."

There's too much to sort through right now, too many confessions and realizations on both sides, but that's okay. In the days ahead, you'll have time enough to sift through the fragments of the last twelve hours, sort out what you need to say to Yosuke; what you need to tell yourself, and start to believe.

For now, there's the morning.

You get to your feet. You feel strangely light, almost free.

"Come on," you say, holding out your hand. "Let's get ready for breakfast."

* * *

Breakfast is the easy part. A text arrives while you're halfway through it: Naoto, reminding you of the meeting. But Yosuke meets your eyes across the table, gives you a slight nod, and so you're able to give Nanako a real smile when you head off.

You're grateful for Yosuke's company, all the way from leaving the Dojima residence, through the walk into town, and until you're in the lift at Junes, heading upwards. The metal walls feel a little too cramped. You swallow, hands curling slightly by your side. Yosuke glances over.

"Souji. Partner. You can do this, okay? I know you can."

Something catches in your throat. "I'm not--"

"Not because of who you were," Yosuke goes on quickly. "Not because of who _I_ thought you were, either."

And then he takes your hand. His fingers curl around yours. You turn to look at him, protest forgotten. He's still staring ahead, a quiet determination in the set of his jaw that looks unfamiliar on him but which you're startled to find that you recognise -- but then his eyes flicker towards you, almost shy, as he says: "Because I'm here."

Yosuke's hand is warm. You return his grip, tentatively.

"I still don't know if you-- if you really get how important you are to us. Not as our leader. As our friend. But I'm damn well going to try and make you understand."

The lift arrives. The doors slide open.

"And once you tell the others? They will, too."

He squeezes your hand, just once, and lets go.

This isn't how it ends; not this easily. There will be a lot for you to unravel and pick apart, in the days and weeks and months to come; old convictions, new realizations, the confused arguments you had in your own head. You'll have to learn to live as the person you are now; not as your past self, alone and free, but as someone bound to others. And there are things you can't give up this soon, parts of you with which you've only made an uneasy truce: beliefs, false or otherwise, about independence and self-reliance and being worth (or not worth) caring about.

But for now, this is you, and this is a start.

Maybe you'll make progress in the months to follow, reclaim your lost skills, become someone great again. More probably, you won't. It doesn't matter. As you step forward towards your friends, something reawakens within you, rises up vast and strong and familiar; a presence no longer separate enough to need its own name.


End file.
